


Turn-about-Faces

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Basil commits bastard crimes, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Corporate Espionage, Gen, Humor, Impersonation, Light Angst, Movie Reference, Mystery, Non-binary character, One Shot, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), as usual, gotta love it, in a Clayface way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24266023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: I was going to write a proper introduction for False Face II before putting them in shenanigans, but sometimes you have to mash your two present favorite rogues together.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Turn-about-Faces

The rain pouring down like some melodramatic scene straight out of a thriller, Basil Karlo casts a wary glance at the street sludge collecting by a storm drain as he passes by, safe under the awnings and curbside trees. A part of him relishes the almost cinematic shot he’s walking through, entertaining the dialogue and sound design of such a piece, but the forefront of his mind is focused on the invitation that’s led him here. _A literal invitation_. Black cardstock, silver accents, metallic red writing- obviously another rogue looking to make use of his skills, judging by the dramatics, but Basil can’t think of any that would bother to be so equal parts cryptic and civil in hiring _him_ of all mud monsters. Usually they’d just freeze him up some and drag him in for a briefing. No conversation, no “hi, how’re you, hope the sewer’s been treating you well.” Just orders and disposal like yesterday’s trash. Granted he can’t blame them, of course. His whole schtick is being shifty, metaphorically and physically. They hardly trust each other, much less the guy that can morph into anything and anyone, anywhere at any time. _Within reason_ , of course.

Basil’s musings are cut short as he reaches the street across from his destination. An alley. Near the docks. With no shelter. Wouldn’t be a problem if his coat and hat weren’t made of himself, and he’s liable to be swept away in this urban monsoon. But as serendipitous luck would have it, a man with a red umbrella stops just out from under the awning currently keeping Basil out of the hazardous, torrential rain. He looks at Basil for a moment, glances over his shoulder across the street, and back to Basil.

“Are you needing to cross?” he asks simply.

Clearing his throat- nothing worse than a phlegmy throat for first impressions- Basil says, “yeah, uh, just over there.”

Nodding and saying nothing more, the man extends his arm to hold the umbrella against the awning, creating a safe pathway for Basil. As he stoops and steps forward, however, a few drops of rain trickle over the side of the umbrella, _right_ onto Basil’s arm and cutting him like a knife. He quickly silences a pained hiss and covers the small gouge in his sleeve-slash-arm, glancing nervously at the man- who, fortunately, doesn’t seem particularly interested in the odd behaviour and simply remains standing in place. Letting out a quietly restrained sigh of relief, Basil nods to the man and the pair begin the trek to the crosswalk and beyond, the much taller rogue-in-disguise struggling to keep pace with the man’s shorter stride. It feels like agonizingly tedious hours before they reach the alley entrance, Basil already dreading navigating around the coagulating puddles of sludgy street drain off and gutter overflow. To make matters worse, there are still no solid coverings in sight, only a single metal balcony and rusty, wrought iron fire escapes. Unless…

“Can I get that?” Basil asks bluntly, gesturing to the umbrella.

The man only nods and hands it to Basil, letting him take it and walk off. Though much to the rogue’s confusion, and admittedly late suspicions, the man follows him into the alley, now keeping perfect pace with him, stopping just as he does to turn and address him.

“Uh, hey, buddy-” Basil begins.

“Don’t concern yourself with him any longer,” a voice interrupts.

Startled, having briefly forgotten why he was heading to the alley in the first place, Basil whips around to face a short lady with beautiful red eyeshadow and lipstick walking towards him, a man in an identical suit as the other holding an identical red umbrella over them both. Her gloves are the same burgundy as her skirt and suit jacket, gesturing to the man near Basil with a small hand swaddled in one. Before the rogue can so much as open his mouth, the man steps around him and out into the rain, yanking the umbrella away as he goes, not seeming to mind his black suit getting immediately soaked as he obeys the silent order. Just in time to avoid what Basil _thought_ was a balcony falling on him, crushing the umbrella and trapping him in four metal walls and a roof, a convenient hole cut through the wall facing the trio, like one of the visitation booths at Arkham.

“Mr. Michael ‘Mickey’ Basil Karlo,” the lady says, her expression unnaturally neutral as she approaches the box.

“How- Who the hell’re you?” Basil snaps.

Ignoring the question, she asks, “your alter ego is Clayface, correct? The Changing Man?”

“Who wants to know?” he tries again.

“Your skills are admirable, and useful,” she observes. “You often work for other criminals in your particular circles of profession. Your abilities have a high percentage for positive results.”

“What are you talkin’ about, lady?” he asks in frustration.

“You came here by invitation, correct?” she asks.

“Y- Yeah…?” he answers, blinking in confusion.

“That should answer some of your questions,” she says. “One would advise you to think and, more urgently, listen lest you would like that shipping container to be filled with rain. You don’t care for rain, do you?”

Rather than wait for an answer, just as Basil gets the notion to lunge forward and attack, she jostles the flaming curls framing her face as she turns her head to the man on her left, who in turn looks somewhere up above them all. On cue, half of the makeshift ceiling opens slightly, just enough for rainwater to begin pouring in, splashing on the cement at his feet dangerously close.

Hurriedly pressing himself against the metal wall, forgoing his humanoid shape entirely, Basil hurriedly says, “okay, _alright_ , I’m listenin’!”

The lid slams shut again with a metallic clang as the lady turns back to face him. She fixes him with startling grey-green eyes, scrutinizing him like a scientist would a specimen, before speaking again.

“You have skills, unnatural and personal, that have proven useful time and time again,” she begins. “This occasion would be no different. Your pay would be above average and your treatment would be that of a co-conspirator rather than a tool. You would be at liberty to call the shots as you see fit, within the conditions of the operation. Your every question would be answered to guarantee your cooperation.”

“You mean… Like a partnership?” Basil asks, raising what _could_ be an eyebrow if you squint.

“If such phrasing pleases you,” she says.

Frowning at the implications of that, and everything else she’d said, Basil gradually, cautiously relaxes his shape as he thinks. On one hand, this chick is seriously sketchy even for a back-alley dealer, especially given the unusual amount of leniency she’s offering him for this job. If this was any other rogue, they’d be keeping him on the shortest leash they could manage, seemingly not worried if he could get the job done so long as he was under their complete control. Sure, they all paid well, save for a few serial cheapskates, but…

“What’s ‘above average’ look like here?” Basil asks.

“What are you usually paid for the typical operation?” she asks in return.

Now, on the _other_ hand… Weighing his options, he carefully slinks around the puddle to get closer to the window. The lady’s assistants both stiffen at his approach, visibly ready to act, while she remains still and unwavering.

“You’ll answer any question I got, right?” he asks.

“To the full capabilities of the present information,” she confirms.

“An’ I can do things my way?” he continues.

“Within the conditions of the operation,” she repeats.

“Right, right,” he says. “…Do I get ‘nother ‘brella if I sign off on this?”

“The rain will not be a problem,” she says.

Pausing to mock consider the offer further, Basil grins and says, “ya got a deal, doll.”  
Acknowledging the agreement with a nod, she turns to her assistant on the right, who procures another umbrella from the bag hanging from his arm. He hands it to the other man to hold in place as Basil squeezes through the opening, letting the rogue take the umbrella as the first man hands the second a suspiciously familiar gun, like something out of a sci-fi flick.

Feeling himself bristle- literally- in anger, Basil asks, “is that-”

“You would have been incapacitated by the freeze gun had you not agreed,” she says plainly.

“You said-” he tries to argue.

“A choice was never mentioned,” she points out. “You heard what was most pleasant for you. Lies are not part of this operation and will not be tolerated.”

Once again perturbed by her meaning, Basil makes the wise decision to silence any further protests, following the small posse as they head out of the alley, the man without an umbrella following behind him once again. Glancing back at him, Basil catches three identically dressed men descending a fire escape after them, one dropping a cable connected to the shipping container at multiple spots. While it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the rig, he’s left wondering how three guys could’ve held up a shipping container on their own for who knows how long. Again, he silences the question, figuring it would be best to leave them all for the end of the briefing. Assuming he still wants that particular answer.

Coming to a stop in the duct, Basil peers through the air vent grate into the office, turning his presently non existent nose up at the gaudy furnishing. He questions why head honcho types always have the worst taste in interior design as he waits for the individual in question, watching as the young man opens the door to the room, waving someone goodbye before taking a seat at his desk. Orville Starr, the CEO of an up and coming company Basil didn’t care enough to catch the name of. All that matters is it’s promising, lucrative, and the lady wants it in _her_ name.

Recalling the plan once more, composed of a basic outline and his own ideas like a Robin Williams adlib, Basil condenses his body and slides through the grate, stretching himself to the floor to keep from falling with a splat. Flattening himself to the tile and carefully maneuvering himself under the desk, he begins to creep up along one of the wooden legs, moving to the back of the office chair as he continues to climb. Reaching the top of that, he forms a makeshift hand and clamps it over Starr’s face, willing more and more of his body into the protuberance, growing it until it encapsulates the man’s entire head and muffles his sounds of distress, more of Basil wrapping around the chair to keep his arms and legs from flailing in the frankly underwhelming, mere seconds long struggle. Quickly tiring himself out, Starr slumps back in the chair as Basil retracts from the now unconscious man, leaving a piece of him clamped over his mouth as he removes the grate and places him in the vent for safe keeping. Hurrying to secure the grate back in place and change to a perfect copy of Starr, Basil pretends to talk to himself as he tries to match the audio recordings he was provided of the CEO, getting the impersonation down just before the door opens and a young woman pokes her head through.

“Mr. Starr?” she says quietly. “Your 4:15 is here.”

 _Of course the amateur’s already got a secretary_. Silencing a scoff, Basil-Starr dismissively says, “send ‘em in.”

The secretary nods and quickly ducks out of the room. A short moment later, three men in formal suits enter, one carrying a stereotypical metal briefcase which he sets on the desk. None of them say anything, simply waiting for Basil to turn the briefcase around and open it. Much to his somewhat disappointed confusion, hoping for something more dramatic, he lifts the stack of papers out of the case and looks to one of them for a pen.

“Everything we went over is in there, sir,” one of the men say as he hands over a red ink pen.

Giving him a side-eyed glance, Basil skims over the contract, earning him a tight frown from the trio watching him closely. Not his fault they don’t appreciate method acting. _Actual_ method acting, rather than the on set asshole’s excuse. Nodding in satisfaction, Basil clicks the pen and perfectly forges Starr’s signature from memory, placing the writing implement at the top of the page and leaning back in his seat. The three men look at each other before one takes the pen back and another places the contract back in the briefcase, the third locking it and picking it up in an almost robotic order.

“Our superior will contact you at a later date for further discussion,” the tertiary states, turning to lead the other two out of the office.

Sighing and smiling to himself proudly- complimentary to the character type, Basil thinks- he crosses his arms and looks up at the ceiling, watching the fan rotate lazily until the door opens once again.

“That was your last meeting of the day, Mr. Starr,” the timid secretary informs, still only partially peeping out from behind the door.

“Right it was,” Basil says with a nod. Sitting up and rolling the chair back, he adds, “I think I’ll take the rest of the day off. Play some golf, watch my shows, y’know.”

“Of course, Mr. Starr,” she says, disappearing just as fast as before.

Some subconscious part of Basil wonders what Starr’s done to make her so jumpy, but the part currently gagging that very man being tickled by a sudden gasp of breath derails that train of thought before it goes any further. Stretching his legs to reach the vent again, Basil pulls Starr out and into the semi-solid mass of his body, once again suffocating him as he begins to stir. The slightly tickling struggle is even shorter this go around, though that’s to be expected. Morphing around Starr and pushing him up until his head pokes out at the top, Basil assumes the shape of the rest of his body and retrieves the hat and sunglasses from the desk. Like most of the plan, it was left up to him how to get out after all was said and done, as long as Starr is brought with him alive, so _Weekend at Bernie’s_ style it is. Minus the corpse and the desecration _of_ said corpse. The secretary pointedly looking down at her computer as he passes by wasn’t initially included, but certainly a plus.

After meeting the three men further down the street and handing Starr off, and being told once more to wait for their boss to contact him, Basil does just that as he wanders down the sidewalk- actually _down_ the sidewalk, with no odd twists and turns under shelter to avoid the rain like yesterday. As wonderful for a mysterious, film noir esque mood as it is, Basil honestly can live without it. Mystery can be achieved in other ways, such as a tall, dark haired man in a deep red suit tapping you on the shoulder as you stop to sit on a bench.

Looking over with a glare, Basil asks, “what d’you want?”

“What was the outcome of the operation?” he asks in return, face trained in an unnaturally neutral expression.

Caught completely off guard, all of Basil’s training slips away as he splutters out, “wh-who’re-”

“You don’t recognize me?” he asks with a vaguely teasing tone. “One would hope they had made an adequately lasting impression, but alas…”

“You’re-” Lowering his voice, Basil asks, “so you’re…?”

“Rather disappointed in your skills of recognition,” the other chastises.

His- her?- neutral expression changing for the first time, a slight smirk appears over the face as the long fingered hand extends five wads of cash to Basil.

Not hesitating to take them, he asks, “how- If that’s- How’d you manage to change so much, so real?”

The smirk widening into a crooked grin, the other says, “one will find it far simpler to change form when the present self has already willed it.” The head tilting to look up at him, the other adds, “man or woman _or_ , it’s much less difficult to forego the gendered language as a whole, don’t you think?”

Frowning slightly in consideration, Basil eventually nods. He- _They_ clasp _their_ hands in their lap as they nod as well.

“If it would interest you,” they say, “there is further employment with a similar freedom.”

Giving them a look, Basil cracks a grin of his own and says, “so definitely a partnership this time.”

“If such phrasing pleases you,” they echo. “Not quite. Something not so closely affiliated, yet still with the same freedoms.” Allowing their smirk to return, they add, “you can rest assured this occasion truly is a choice.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks sarcastically.

“Lies are cumbersome self sabotage and poor attempts at persuasion,” they state. “You may take the time you need for consideration.”

Making a small sound of acknowledgement, Basil once again weighs his options. He can’t deny he digs their tenacity and mysterious style of business, features of something like an actor’s flair and moxie. They hadn’t lied once, either, not counting masquerading as two different people. And again, _any other rogue_ … At the very least, they’ll be interesting to hang around.

“Keep bringing me work like this and ya got a deal, kid,” Basil says.

It takes him too long to realize he misspoke, too long to amend before they stiffly say, “do not address me as such.”

“Well- You never gave me a name.” Perfect apology.

Fixing him with a bright blue glare, they study him before saying, “False Face. Or Lucy. Or Luke. Whichever the present me goes by.”

“Right,” he nods, clearing his throat nervously.

Looking over him again, slower this time as if to memorize his current form, they simply nod once more in return before standing and walking off. Perplexed by the odd individual’s words _yet again_ , Basil simply watches them leave for a moment, thinking about what they said and drawing up a new civilian look for himself.


End file.
